Stuart Woods: Cold Paradise

“Go ahead and look.” Stone made a couple of turns. He was now in a handsome residential neighborhood off North County Road, which pretty much served as Palm Beach’s main street.

“I’ve got it,” she said. “He’s the chief investigative officer for Boston Mutual.”

“That’s the guy. Name and phone number?” He pulled to the curb and got out his notebook.

“Frank Stendahl.” She gave him the number.

Stone wrote it down. “Any other calls?”

She read him a short list, and he gave her instructions on handling them, then he hung up and dialed Frank Stendahl’s number. He had met Stendahl in St. Marks, when the man had come to investigate the claim on Paul Manning’s insurance policy and had ended up testifying at Allison’s trial. Stone had involved him in the capture of Paul Manning later, but the murder charges against Manning had taken precedence over Boston Mutual’s insurance fraud charges, and, since Allison had made their twelve million dollars disappear before she was “hanged,” Manning had had no money left for them to go after.

“Stendahl,” a gruff voice said.

“Frank, it’s Stone Barrington.”

Stendahl’s voice warmed. “Stone, how are you?”

“Very well, thanks. How’s the weather in Boston?”

“Don’t ask.”

“I won’t. Tell me, Frank, how do you think your company would feel about getting back some of the money you paid out on the Paul Manning policy?”

“You planning to reimburse us, Stone?” Suspicion had crept into the investigator’s voice.

“Certainly not,” Stone replied. “But it might be possible to recover a part of the sum.”

“How?”

“Let’s just say that I have a client who is interested in clearing up the matter. Not the whole twelve million, of course, but a decent fraction.”

“How decent a fraction?”

“How about a million dollars?”

“How about six million?”

“It’s not going to happen, Frank.”

“And what do we have to do to get this money?”

“Nothing, really. Just agree to a settlement and sign a release.”

“Releasing who from what?”

“Releasing anybody from any liability connected with the fraud.”

Stendahl was silent.

“Frank?”

“I’m just trying to figure this out,” he said. “Who’s your client?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential and will have to remain so.”

“I just don’t get it, Stone,” Stendahl said. “Both the people responsible for the fraud are dead, and the money vanished into thin air, or at least into some offshore account we could never find. Who would want to give us a million bucks out of the goodness of his heart?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Frank. I was contacted and instructed to contact your company and make the offer. That’s all I can tell you.”

“I just don’t get it,” Stendahl said again.

“You want me to tell my client you said no?”

“Of course not,” Stendahl nearly shouted. “I’ll have to take this upstairs, see what they have to say.”

“I can have the money in your account twenty-four hours after I receive the release.”

“I’ll tell them that.”

“And, Frank, it’s going to be an iron-clad release-broad and deep, covering anything anybody could ever have done to Boston Mutual in the matter of this policy.”

“Stone, do you have any idea how hard it would be for an insurance executive ever to sign such a document? It would turn his liver to rock candy.”

“Maybe a million dollars would melt it.”

“Where can I reach you?”

Stone gave him the cell phone number. “I’m in Florida,” he said.

Stendahl groaned and hung up.

Stone called his office again and dictated a release. “Type that up, leaving the amount blank, and have it ready to fax to Stendahl,” he said.

“Will do,” Joan replied.

Stone pulled back into traffic. On the way back to the yacht, he passed West Indies Drive, where Elizabeth Harding’s house was. He was going to have to get used to that name.

“Liz,” he said aloud. “Liz, Liz, Liz.” He thought about the nights he had spent with her aboard the yacht in St. Marks, and the memory stirred more in him than he was comfortable with. After all, he was pimping- well, that was too strong a word- representing Thad Shames in the matter of Liz Harding, and sleeping with the woman his client was chasing would probably violate some canon of legal ethics.

He was back on board Toscana, sipping a rum and tonic on the after-deck, when his cell phone rang.

“Stone Barrington.”

“It’s Stendahl. I’m with our CEO and CFO, and I’m going to put you on the speakerphone.”

“Okay.”

Stendahl’s voice became hollow. “Now, Stone, our people are not willing to enter into this transaction without knowing more about your client and his reasons for making this offer.”

“Frank, gentlemen, client-attorney confidentiality prevents me from telling you any more than I already have about my client’s identity or motives. This is a very simple proposition: I will wire-transfer one million dollars into Boston Mutual’s account, in return for a release of criminal and civil liability in the matter of the Paul Manning policy for anyone who ever had anything to do with it.”

Another voice spoke. “This is Morrison, CFO of the company,” it said. “Five million, and that’s our best offer.”

“Mr. Morrison,” Stone said, “I’m doing the offering, and while I’m at it, I’ll give you our last, best offer to settle this matter. One million, five hundred thousand dollars, and that’s it. You have only to accept or reject, but I must tell you, that if you reject this offer, when this phone call is over, you will never hear of this matter again. You simply have to decide whether you’d rather be out twelve million dollars or ten million, five.” Stone stopped talking and waited.

“Hang on,” Stendahl said, and the call went on hold.

Stone waited, tapping his fingers against his glass. If they stood firm, he could always come back with five million later. After all, that’s what Liz Harding had said she would pay.

“We’re back,” Stendahl said.

“This is Shanklin, the CEO of the company,” a new voice said. “We accept, pending a legal review of the form of the release.”

“Give me a fax number,” Stone said, then wrote it down. “Gentlemen, you’ll have the release in five minutes. Sign and fax it to my office, along with your bank account number, and FedEx the original. Upon receipt of the original, I will wire-transfer the funds to your account.”

“We’re waiting,” Stendahl said.

Stone punched off and speed-dialed his office. When Joan answered, he said, “Insert the amount of one million five hundred thousand dollars in the document, print it out and fax it to Stendahl pronto; he’s waiting for it.” He gave her the number, then hung up.

Stone sat and sipped his drink, watching the afternoon grow later. Half an hour later, his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Joan. They signed the document and faxed it back to us.”

“Great,” Stone said. He found Juanito, got the yacht’s fax number, gave it to Joan and asked her to fax the document to him, then he called Liz Harding.

“It’s Stone,” he said when she had answered. “I have news.”

“Tell me,” she said.

“Boston Mutual has accepted an offer of one point five million to settle the matter and release you from any civil or criminal liability.”

“Oh, Stone,” she gushed. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to hear that.”

“Now listen,” he said. “It’s three-thirty. I want you to call or fax your bank right this minute and instruct them to wire-transfer the funds to my firm’s trust account in New York. It’s too late for them to do it today, but instruct them to wire the funds immediately upon opening on Monday morning. That way, I can have the funds wired to Boston the same day, and this transaction will be complete.”